The Yakuza's flower

Let's do this

Ume's pov

After Hanayama agreed to what I was asking, everything moved quickly.

Not rushed—just decided.

I changed into a light purple dress, soft and simple, the kind that felt like me. When I noticed it matched the shade of Hanayama's shirt, I smiled to myself. Not because it mattered to anyone else—but because it mattered to me.

I did my makeup fast, nothing dramatic. Just enough to look awake. Just enough to feel like myself. I pulled my hair back, neat but loose, the way I always wore it when I didn't want to think too hard.

No nerves yet.

Just motion.

When we were ready, we didn't tell anyone. No announcements. No explanations. The house stayed quiet as we moved through it, like it understood this wasn't a moment meant for noise.

We brought Prince with us.

I strapped him in myself, my hands steady, my heart calm in a way it hadn't been all day. He babbled softly, unaware that anything important was happening—just happy to be close, just happy to be with us.

We slipped out into the night without ceremony, without witnesses, without the weight of anyone else's expectations riding along with us.

When we arrived at the courthouse, the steps were quiet.

Stone cool beneath my shoes. The building tall and indifferent, like it had seen a thousand futures start and end without ever remembering any of them.

We stood there for a moment.

No rushing.
No nerves crawling up my spine.

Just the three of us.

Prince shifted softly in my arms, a small sound breaking the stillness. Hanayama glanced at him, then back at me.

His presence at my side was solid—unchanging, grounding in a way that made the world feel less heavy.

I took a slow breath.

He didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.

We looked at each other—really looked—like we were making sure this wasn't a dream we'd wake up from.

Then Hanayama reached for my hand.

Not pulling.
Just offering.

I took it.

And together, we walked up the steps and through the doors

———

After all was said and done, after the signatures and the quiet confirmation that changed everything without ceremony, we went out to eat.

Nothing fancy.

Just a small place still open late, warm lights in the windows, the kind of restaurant where no one looks twice at.

It felt right.

We sat in a corner booth. Prince nestled between us, happily occupied with his bottle, completely unaware that anything monumental had happened at all. Hanayama ordered for us without asking—simple, familiar food—and I didn't mind.

When the plates arrived, I realized how hungry I was.

Not just for food.

For normalcy.

For quiet.

For a moment that didn't feel like a battle or a negotiation.

Hanayama ate slowly, unhurried. Every so often his hand brushed mine on the table